


Of Things Despaired Of

by Jevvica



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Angst, Catholic, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Episode Related, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Prayer, Whump
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-03
Updated: 2015-05-17
Packaged: 2018-03-21 00:29:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 11,214
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3670755
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jevvica/pseuds/Jevvica
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“I failed in my duty as a Musketeer.  But worse, I failed in my duty as your friend.”</p><p>Events after the end of Season 2 and beyond.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Author’s Notes: This takes place after Season 2. So, so many spoilers.
> 
> I own very little and absolutely nothing related to The Musketeers.

* * *

 

oooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo

 

“ _Are we just going to let him go?”_

“ _No. He's letting us go.”_

 

oooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo

 

 

Aramis didn't know what to say when Porthos appeared in his tiny cell at the monastery.

He'd seemed excited, but when he'd seen Aramis in robes, something had changed. He was serious and grim. It made Aramis nervous.

He thought he'd left them behind. Let them go.

He should have known it had been too easy when Porthos just stood aside.

Porthos tossed his hat onto the bed and took deep breath.

“Why didn't you tell me? 'Bout you and the Queen.”

“Did you honestly come all this way to have this discussion?”

“If I did?” Porthos stuck out his jaw.

“As I said, I wanted to protect her reputation...”

“From me?” interrupted Porthos. “What did the Queen, or better yet, what did _you_ have to fear from me?”

Aramis opened his mouth and then closed it again. Before he could decide what to say, Porthos spoke again.

“What are you doin' here?”

“I told you,” answered Aramis.

“Try again.”

Porthos looked at him.

Waiting.

Aramis sighed and scratched at his bare face.

“I made a vow. A vow to God that if I survived, I would forsake all earthly temptations and would give over my life to Him. I must honor that vow. I want to find peace.”

Porthos tensed and shifted, angry in the flash of a moment.

“You not tired of lyin' to me yet? Hmm?”

“I am not lying,” said Aramis carefully. “I would not lie about something like this.”

“You are!” bellowed Porthos, his voice filling the tiny cell. “Treville kept the truth from me for years. You lied to me for months. All I have had from men I trusted, men I respected, was lies! Peace? Rubbish, you're punishing yourself.”

His voice rang through the room, pounding at Aramis. It echoed and faded and all Aramis could hear was his thundering heart and Porthos' shaky breath.

“If this,” said Porthos, painfully quiet, “if this is the last time we talk, you could at least give me the fucking truth.”

“You say you want the truth, but you don't know the things I've done...”

“Oh, you're right. I don't. Because you won't tell me. I'm here, Aramis. I'm here and I'm listening and this is your chance.”

Aramis jerked, as if something had broken inside him.

“You want all of it?” he spat. “You want all of the blood and darkness and utter foolishness? How many people were hurt? Because of the choices I made? Adele Bassette is dead, murdered by the Cardinal. As a message to me. For taking what I had no right to. I killed her just as surely as I had pulled the trigger myself.”

Now that he had begun, Aramis found he couldn't stop. The confession rolled out of him, louder and louder, a wave of sorrow and disgust so fast he hardly had time to consider what he was saying.

“And Marguerite is dead, from her own hand, but because I used her to get close to the Dauphin. And then I left her. I left her ruined, fallen, friendless, and desperate and I didn't even care, _I didn't even care_! She was nothing, nothing but a means to be near my son.

“Lemay is dead. Constance nearly so. Anne too, she was so close...You warned me. You told me, set my sights lower. I didn't listen. Not to you or Athos or Treville. I heeded none of the good counsel of my friends.

“You had to set out on a suicide mission to Spain...If Athos and d'Artagnan hadn't come after you, you would have been dead in a borderland countryside and we never would have known what happened.

“All of you put your lives in danger. Because of me. To fix what I had destroyed. Because I didn't think. And even if I had, I don't know if I would have done differently.

“I'm a monster, Porthos. I use and I take. Everything I touch dies.”

Porthos would throttle him now. Aramis looked up, braced.

Porthos was frowning, but it was concern and compassion Aramis found, not the revulsion he expected.

The big man stepped forward and Aramis held up a hand.

“No.”

Porthos frowned harder and took another step. Aramis backed away.

“No. No, I don't deserve kindness, I don't.”

Porthos moved closer.

“I was distracted that day, that day in the market with Balthazar and Tariq,” he blurted. “There was a baby crying and all I thought of was the Dauphin.”

Porthos stopped then, listening.

“The Dauphin. Not the mission, not my role, not even you. I didn't take the shot, I waited too long and then the angle was gone. Innocent people died. And you were hurt.”

Porthos tilted his head, a small movement. Aramis saw the scene playing out in his mind, putting together how it had all fallen apart. Porthos focused on Aramis again, unreadable.

Until he wasn't.

His dark eyes had gone soft and sad. Almost pleading.

Porthos stepped forward again.

Aramis tried to move away, but a wall was suddenly at this back.

“You great oaf, you don't have the sense to stay away from me!”

He couldn't stop speaking, the words tumbling over each other, too fast.

“You were shot! They beat you and dragged you away. Tariq died and Samara was made an orphan! It was my fault, Porthos. Mine! Your blood was in the street.”

Aramis let his head fall back and hit the wall, suddenly weary.

“I failed in my duty as a Musketeer. But worse, I failed in my duty as your friend.”

Porthos was so close.

“And you should hate me!”

Aramis tried to push him away, but Porthos was strong and determined.

Immoveable.

He caught Aramis' wrist and pulled him forward, into his arms.

Aramis stood there, stiff and panting.

“Why don't you hate me?!”

“Because you're my brother,” Porthos said brokenly.

Aramis choked back a sob.

There was no one else to see.

No one to force them apart.

No mission, no danger, no time line.

Slowly, slowly, Aramis relaxed.

He pressed his face to Porthos' throat and just breathed.

The scents of leather and gunpowder and horse and Porthos filled him.

It had only been a few days and he was shocked by how much he missed them.

Porthos was warm and solid and strong.

Steadfast.

If there was nothing else Aramis felt sure of, that he knew he could rely on, he knew he could rely on Porthos.

Even when he should run, when he should abandon Aramis to his fate, he did not.

Would not.

Could not.

Aramis could try for what remained of his life to find the words to express his gratitude and it would still be inadequate.

He felt exhausted, but he finally looped his arms around Porthos back. It might have been minutes, it might have been an hour. He turned his face into Porthos' high collar, but didn't pull away.

“I'm not sayin' you're blameless,” said Porthos finally. “You made a right mess of a lot of things. But all of this ain't your fault. Rochefort plotted and lied and twisted it up.”

“But he would not have had such an easy time of it, if not for the truths he uncovered,” said Aramis. He forced himself to step back and look Porthos in the eye. “I have been a soldier all my adult life. I have made choices, protected people, and I have killed. All to serve France. I'm still killing. People are still dying, but not for the right reasons. I can't trust myself.”

Porthos growled low in his throat, but it was more frustration than anger.

“Maybe this is me punishing myself,” he continued. “Maybe I just need some time. But I promised God. And despite the odds, we lived. I lived. And I need to honor the vow. Or at least try.”

The big Musketeer stared at him. Aramis watched the battle play out, the back and forth across Porthos' face. He wasn't sure if he was disappointed or relieved when Porthos finally nodded.

“Alright,” sighed Porthos. “At least here, maybe you'll be safe.”

“Safe?” frowned Aramis. “Safe from what?”

Porthos was suddenly interested in the floor and shifting.

“France has declared war on Spain.”

“That's why you came,” said Aramis slowly with realization. “You want me to come with you.”

“Yeah,” Porthos breathed. And then he shook his head and looked up at Aramis. “But don't.”

“What?”

“You're not wrong, Aramis. You made bad choices. If you want to stay here forever 'cause you're tired of soldiering, then do it. If you want to stay here until you get your head on straight, you are welcome back whenever that is. If you come back to the Musketeers, it has to be because you want to. Not because you think we need you.”

“Do you?” asked Aramis, before he could stop himself. “Need me?”

Porthos' smile was small and sad.

“Always.”

Aramis' heart squeezed painfully.

The big man sniffed and cleared his throat. “You aren't a monster. Just a man who made mistakes. And you ain't hopeless. But just so you don't forget...” Porthos reached up and slipped his necklace over his head. He carefully settled it around Aramis' neck, patting the charms.

“Your St. Jude medal,” murmured Aramis softly. He looked up at Porthos with a grin. “Thought you said I wasn't hopeless?”

Porthos' hand was still covering the necklace against Aramis' chest, warm and steady.

“All things are possible with God. Isn't that what you're always sayin'?” Aramis let his hand cover Porthos' and squeeze.

“So I am.”

Porthos studied him a moment before he slipped his hand out of Aramis' and turned to pick up his hat.

“I best be going.” He suddenly smiled wickedly. “Don't want to keep the Captain waitin'.”

“Treville?”

“Athos.”

Aramis blinked.

Opened his mouth.

Shut it.

And blinked again.

“I...did not see that coming.”

Porthos' laughter rolled through the room, unfettered and bright.

“Neither did Athos. I think he's still expectin' it to be a bad dream.” He settled his hat on his head. “Personally, I don't think Treville could have chosen better.”

Aramis looked at his friend, his very best friend, arrayed for war and so alive and vibrant.

All at once, he desperately wished he was accompanying him.

How many years had it been since they'd been apart? That they'd fought a campaign without the other? Who would watch over Porthos? Guard his back when he was reckless and unarmed? Who would make sure Athos ate? Or d'Artagnan slept?

The smallest flutter of panic stirred in his stomach.

“To war. How am I supposed to just let you go?”

Porthos reached out and palmed his cheek. It was rougher than a caress, but softer than a slap, filled with affection and understanding. And then it was gone.

“You already did.”

Porthos ducked through the small door.

He didn't look back.

Aramis didn't move.

The medal of St. Jude was a reassuring weight at his heart.

 

 

 

 

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This takes place after Season 2. So, so many spoilers.
> 
> A novena is a prayer said for nine days.  
> I know Porthos said monk, but I went with Jesuits as my basis.  
> My Catholic is showing.
> 
> I own very little and absolutely nothing related to The Musketeers.

oooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo

 

Father Xavier walked past the gates of the abbey and stopped abruptly. Standing outside them, staring into the distance, was Aramis. The man had been there for weeks as a novice, but had yet to take first vows. Xavier pushed down a sigh.

Aramis was perplexing. He wholeheartedly professed a desire to be close to God, to live a life serving the Church and Xavier believed him. But he also heard Aramis' confessions. He knew his guilt and the things he blamed himself for. Xavier knew how torn the man was between what he thought we wanted and where his heart seemed to lie.

Aramis stood at the crossroads and would not move.

As the provincial, he could not let it continue.

He walked through the gates and toward Aramis.

“What is on your mind, Brother Aramis?”

Aramis startled slightly before turning to acknowledge him.

“Forgive me, Father, I didn't hear you.”

“I should think not, for heavy and dark is your contemplation.” Aramis smiled ruefully.

“I cannot seem to rein in my thoughts.”

“Yes, and thus I asked and will ask again. What is on your mind?”

The smiled dropped away as the younger man stared at the dirt at his feet as though it held all the answers.

“I was thinking of first vows and whether I am ready.”

“We are never ready. We are never worthy. Only God makes us so.” Xavier tilted his head and looked at the lines around Aramis' eyes. “Why does the thought of obedience cause you so much suffering?”

“Nothing that suffers can pass without merit in the sight of God,” said Aramis.

“That is not the quote.” Aramis frowned.

“Pardon me?”

“That is not the full writing from Kempis. _'_ _Nothing, how little soever, that is suffered for God's sake, can pass without merit in the sight of God.'_ ” Father Xavier stepped forward to fully face Aramis. “I do not doubt you suffer, Brother Aramis. I can see it in the way you work. Your daily confessions. The way you stand and stare into the south. Like you can see across the whole of France to where the war rages. But I wonder if you suffer for God's glory. Or your own punishment.”

“I made a vow.”

“Yes. A vow you made when you were without hope. A promise made in despair.”

“And now that I passed that darkness, I should renounce it?”

“Of course not. We should not seek God only when we think we need Him. Nor can we bargain with Him. You were not saved because you promised to live a pure life.”

“Then why?” whispered Aramis.

“I cannot say. You cannot say.” Aramis' eyes scanned the fields turned gold by the setting sun.

“I'm trying to be better. I have killed and I have used and I have betrayed.”

“You were a soldier.”

“That's not an excuse.”

“But is it a reason?” asked Father Xavier. “Perhaps reason enough?”

“No.”

“Then what is?”

“I loved. I wanted to protect those I loved and instead I failed them all, in some way.”

“And they hate you for it.”

“No,” said Aramis, shaking his head. “They love me still.”

“We all fail, Brother. And yet, God loves us still. We sin and we fall. But we are forgiven, if we desire it. If we truly try to sin no more.”

“I don't know if I can stop. That I won't make the same mistakes.”

“You do not trust yourself. You shouldn't. Humans are frail, imperfect creatures. We are nothing without God.” Father Xavier turned from the fields and gestured at the abbey. “We are protected here. Fewer temptations, fewer opportunities to sin, the support of our brothers. But God is not only in these walls, Aramis. You can find Him in all things. You can still live a life in His service. It just may be harder out there, in the world.”

Aramis reached up to worry his St. Jude medal between his fingertips. Xavier watched him a moment before he spoke again.

“Do you wear that medal because you think you're a lost cause?”

“I wear it because the man who gave it to me thinks I'm not,” answered Aramis quietly.

“He sounds like a good friend.”

“He is.” Aramis frowned at him. “What do you truly think I should do, Father?”

Father Xavier folded his hands into his sleeves and thought for a long moment.

“Holy orders should not be your punishment, it should be your joy. You're dying slowly and will continue to do so unless something changes,” he said after a long moment. “The glory of God is man fully alive. You need to discover what that means for you.” Father Xavier nodded at the St. Jude medal. “Perhaps begin with a novena to St. Jude?”

Xavier turned and walked back through the monastery gates. When he glanced back, Aramis was again facing the south.

 

oooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo

 

Aramis had just finished the novena Father Xavier had suggested when he opened his Bible to the daily psalm.

 

_Blessed be the Lord, my rock,_

_who trains my hands for battle,_

_my fingers for war;_

  
  


They were words he knew well. This psalm had always been one of his favorites, the favorite of many soldiers.

  
  


_My safeguard and my fortress,_

_my stronghold, my deliverer,_

_My shield, in whom I take refuge,_

_who subdues peoples under me._

####    
  


A psalm of faith and safety in a world filled with doubt and danger.

  
  


_Lord, what is man that you take notice of him;_

_the son of man, that you think of him?_

_Man is but a breath,_

_his days are like a passing shadow._

 

Aramis need to leave. He felt it with a certainty he had feared he'd never feel about anything again.

He couldn't fix all that he had broken, but there was good he could do, lives he could save, wrongs he could right. He was fully alive when he was fighting.

He'd lost sight of what was important. He'd forgotten justice and honor in pursuit of that which he wanted but could never have. God had given him a home and brothers and he had nearly thrown away all of it.

It was time to go and find it again, for however many days he had left to him.

He reached under his small bed and pulled out the trunk he had shoved there weeks ago and had tried not to think about.

The scent of leather greeted him as he opened the lid. His doublet was soft against his fingers. The pauldron was scarred, but no less strong. Like him.

He pulled off his robes and began to don his uniform.

It felt good.

Right.

Finally.

 

oooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo

 

Days and many leagues later, Aramis led his horse through the Musketeer camp, acknowledging greetings as he went.

He's stopped in Paris, but Treville had been unavailable and he dared not wait. He gathered what news he could and rode on for the front.

He was eager to see his friends, but in the last few days, it was more than that. An anxiousness he could not describe.

Perhaps he feared what sort of welcome he would receive.

He was moving in the direction of the command tent when the sound of his name stopped him.

“Aramis?” He turned to see d'Artagnan gaping at him as though he could not be real. He rubbed his growing beard self-consciously. Did he look that different?

“Hello, d'Artagnan.”

The Gascon didn't run to him, but it was a near thing. He opened his arms to the young man and wrapped him up tight. D'Artagnan felt thinner, harder, than he had on the road when last Aramis had seen him.

After a long moment, d'Artagnan let out a shaking breath.

“How did you know? How did you know to come?”

“I didn't...know...” Aramis gripped d'Artagnan's shoulders and pushed him back. “Know what?”

D'Artagnan's eyes were huge and dark. He looked incredibly young.

And worried.

Aramis' heart began to pound. He very carefully kept his hands from tightening around d'Artagnan's arms. “What's going on?”

D'Artagnan stepped back and ran a hand through his hair, visibly gathering himself.

“Follow me. You'll want to talk to Athos.”

D'Artagnan led him to a tent where Athos leaned over a table with his back to them, studying maps. D'Artagnan cleared his throat quietly.

“What is it?” snapped Athos, not turning around.

“I found this raggedy looking recruit wandering around, looking for something to do,” answered d'Artagnan, winking at Aramis.

Athos slumped a little, weariness in the line of his shoulders.

“D'Artagnan, I do not have time to...” Athos broke off as he turned and saw Aramis.

Not many times could Aramis ever say he'd seen Athos utterly stunned. He just stopped and stared. And then quickly crossed the distance between them and hugged him warmly.

“My God,” breathed Athos, “it is good to see you.” Aramis grinned into Athos' shoulder before he pulled back.

“You too, my friend.”

Athos motioned to one of the chairs as he took the other. He leaned forward, sharp green eyes studying Aramis.

“Am I to understand you want your commission back?”

“Yes.”

“You said you wanted to go,” mused Athos. “With your whole heart. What changed?”

“What I wanted was to be good. To be righteous. I thought I had to leave, to be separate, to do it. I am no longer certain of that. But I am certain that where I need to be is with the Musketeers.”

“If you're sure.”

“I am.”

“Well,” said Athos, leaning back, “I would be lying if I said I couldn't use a few more of you.”

D'Artagnan shifted, looking at Athos through his lashes while chewing on a thumbnail.

Athos' eyes went flat, almost challenging.

Aramis studied the two of them before he spoke.

“Why don't you tell me what you're glaring at each other about?”

Athos took a deep breath before he began.

“Three days ago, a scouting party of four men set out. They did not return on schedule. A day later, another scout found three of them dead, ambushed by the looks of it. Last night, the horse of the missing man found its way back to camp, covered in old blood. We've had no ransom demands or evidence to suggest he was captured.”

“And he still hasn't turned up?” asked Aramis, looking between the two men. D'Artagnan looked sick and wouldn't meet his eyes.

“No, we still don't know what became of Porthos.”

Athos' voice was so calm, so even, that it took Aramis a moment to understand what he was saying.

“Porthos?”

Athos nodded. Aramis' hand clenched around the edge of the table and he forced himself to breathe.

“What have the search parties turned up?”

“There have been other scouts, but they haven't seen anything.”

“Scouts. But you haven't sent anyone to find him,” Aramis felt himself getting louder. “Three days and you haven't even looked for him?”

The flat of Athos' palm slapped the table sharply.

“I can't. This position has been nearly overrun twice. That's why I had scouts out that way, looking at other locations or retreat paths, should need arise. I cannot weaken this outfit further. That terrain is riddled with caves and hollows, could take days to investigate, and I do not have the personnel to spare for a search party.”

Aramis stared at Athos and d'Artagnan made a strangled noise. Athos' eyes flashed up at d'Artagnan and Aramis got the impression this was not a new argument.

“It does not matter what I want. _I cannot._ This isn't like before, when we could ride off, rules and orders be damned. I have a duty to every man here, I can't send them out to hostile territory to find one Musketeer. Even if that Musketeer is Porthos.”

Athos fixed his gaze back on Aramis and beneath the air of command and the seemingly indifferent posturing, Athos was begging for him to understand.

“Alright,” said Aramis slowly. “I'm going to look for him.”

“Aramis...” sighed Athos, running a hand over his face. Aramis pressed on.

“I'm not part of your muster yet, you can spare me. I'll be less conspicuous alone. And if I run into trouble, I can pass for Spanish.”

“And if you don't find him?”

The question rang through the tent like a bell.

Aramis knew what Athos was truly asking.

_Will you still stay?_

Aramis contemplated the possibility of never finding Porthos, or discovering him dead. Could he still return to the regiment even if it lacked one of the men who made it home?

It was an easy decision. The loss of his brother wouldn't be easier in a monastery. It might be bearable surrounded by his friends. He looked up at Athos.

“Then I come back and become a model soldier and follow your every order.” Athos huffed a laugh.

“What a terrifying thought.” He smiled for a brief second, but it faded away. Aramis took in his shadowed, tired eyes.

“I promise you, Athos. No more running.”

They regarded one another silently and Aramis knew he nearly had him.

“Captain, please, let me try.” Athos flinched and stood up abruptly.

“So be it,” he muttered, moving back to the table he'd been at when they'd come in. “D'Artagnan will show you to the quartermaster for any supplies you need. I'll go over the maps with you tonight, plan your route. You leave at first light.”

 

oooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo

 

As soon as they were out of earshot, Aramis turned to d'Artagnan.

“How have things been?”

“Well. There's a war going on,” teased d'Artagnan with a smile.

“You know what I mean.”

“No matter how he begrudges it, Athos is a born leader,” said d'Artagnan after a moment. “Things were fine.”

“But?” asked Aramis when he didn't go on.

“But when Porthos went missing...” D'Artagnan stopped and put his hands on his hips only to lift them helplessly. “At least he's not drinking to excess, but I don't thing he's eating, either. He's been closed off and angry. It's like he lost the only person he trusted.”

'He trusts you, d'Artagnan,” snapped Aramis quickly.

“Yes, of course, but what do I know of war? Of formations and tactics and the running of an army? Precious little. I begged him to let me go after Porthos. I understand why we couldn't send a large party, but I can't stand doing nothing and watch him blame himself.” D'Artagnan frowned and shook his head.

“Athos knows the job. And the risks,” said Aramis.

“But has it been on his orders before?”

Of course Athos would be blaming himself. Three men dead and another missing. Aramis blew out an exasperated breath.

“And it's _Porthos_ ,” continued d'Artagnan. “You were gone and there was no one else.”

“When you saw me...”

“I thought maybe you'd heard and you'd come to help. I realize now that there's no way, you wouldn't have had enough time.”

“I didn't. Not exactly.”

“Not exactly?”

“I had no idea about Porthos or what had happened. But...I...knew I had to be here. I just knew.” Aramis reached up and felt for the St. Jude medal. He fixed d'Artagnan with a steady look. “You're not wrong. I have come to help. I'm going to find him.”

 

 


	3. Chapter 3

 

It took Aramis only a few hours to reach where the scouts had been found. There were still deep brown patches on the earth and stone where the bodies had lain.

Three.

Was Porthos in a fourth somewhere nearby, waiting to be discovered?

Aramis shook the thought away and forced himself to examine the scene. He looked at the area from the back of his horse, trying to see how it had played out.

Aramis understood what Athos meant about the lay of the land. Rock formations rose and fell as far as he could see. Ravines and hollows were everywhere. Countless places to hide.

With the bluffs overhead, it was an excellent place for an ambush. The Musketeers would have had very little cover and no outlet other than straight back or straight ahead.

Porthos would have been in the lead. His mission, his scouts.

Aramis eyed the path to the east. It seemed like the mostly likely route, if someone were to try to escape this bottleneck. And if they'd still been heading into the mountains, Porthos would have been closest to it.

Aramis dismounted and led his horse, searching the ground.

The terrain evened out eventually, still craggy and uneven, but without the higher rock walls.

More open, easier to be seen. But easier to run.

Not too far out of the shelter of the gully, he found a blood trail.

It was scattered and sporadic, but not so much he couldn't follow it.

He tracked it, heading steadily northwest, doubling back and finding it again when it disappeared. Around mid-day, it grew heavier, easier to spot. Aramis crouched down in the shade of a sheltering rock where the trail led and became a larger stain. This he could read easy enough.

Whoever it was had stopped to treat their wound. He reached out and picked up the remains of a musket ball. It had deformed, as they often did, either on impact or with removal. He turned the flattened ball over in his fingers and tried not to picture Porthos digging it from his flesh.

Aramis stood up quickly and looked around. There was evidence of horses, definitely more than one. Whoever it was either had not been alone or had been pursued.

The blood trail took up again, though far weaker, and headed back to the south.

Toward the French encampment.

Aramis estimated he was an hour or two from camp when the trail disappeared. He went back to where it ended and tried another direction.

He rode in circles, wider and wider, attempting to find where the spatters picked up again, but there was nothing.

Rock and wind and no sign of anyone.

Aramis blew out a frustrated breath. Athos and Porthos were good at this. Tracking, reading the signs, seeing the hints in the broken leaves and disturbed rocks.

This was not his strength.

He didn't know what to do.

He'd been on Porthos' trail.

He knew it.

It fit with everything he'd seen and everything he knew of Porthos.

He would have led the Spanish away and tried to double back.

Porthos was close. Or had been.

He dismounted, searching the ground.

The trail was gone.

He didn't know what to do.

His eyes burned and his head ached.

No one just disappears.

Perhaps he'd been captured after all.

But it felt wrong.

Aramis kept looking, pacing.

He couldn't stay out here indefinitely.

But why keep searching if there was nothing to find?

Why come back if he hadn't changed.

All of it was supposed to make sense now.

What was he doing here?

He'd been so convinced, _so sure_ that this was where he should be.

Where God wanted him to be.

On the front, fighting.

With the Musketeers.

What was the point?

Fear and guilt and uncertainty clawed at him.

 

_What was the point if he couldn't find Porthos?_

 

The moment he thought it, the reasons came to him.

The worn sadness weighing down Athos.

The utter relief on d'Artagnan's face when he'd seen him.

They wanted him. Welcomed him.

Aramis looked out over the afternoon sun-drenched land, beautiful and wild.

He straightened his shoulders.

He couldn't look for Porthos forever.

Even if part of him would always be looking.

There was still work for him, still purpose.

He'd promised Athos.

Aramis stood there a moment longer and a gust of air pushed at him.

Pushing him back toward the camp.

And he knew he had his answer.

Perhaps it was Porthos himself, telling Aramis to stop wasting time.

He shut his eyes against burning tears.

“I'm sorry, Porthos,” he whispered into the wind.

And he turned away and toward the direction of the brothers he could still help.

 


	4. Chapter 4

Aramis had not gone far when his horse shied and danced away from a rock pile.

“Whoa, easy.” He patted the mare's neck and looked around for what had spooked her. The ground looked undisturbed. Aramis dismounted and waited.

The horse didn't shy again, but her ears swiveled quickly. She was clearly aware of something Aramis wasn't.

He scratched lightly at her neck and studied the area. There was a fairly smooth path along a rock outcropping that ran for some distance. A few bushes grew here and there, possible cover for some animals, perhaps. One of the bushes looked wilted and dusty.

Aramis frowned and stepped closer to it.

The day was fading to evening, but the shadows behind the plant did not look quite right. He reached out to push the branches aside when the whole bush came away in his hand, revealing an opening into the rocks.

He stooped down examined the dark opening. It looked like a very small cave, more of a hollow, really. Not tall enough to stand in. He leaned forward and peered into the shadows to see how far back it went.

“Stop.” The command that barked from the darkness startled him. Someone was hiding in there.

“I mean you no harm,” said Aramis, stooping to enter the cave. “May I be of assistance?”

“Come any closer and you're dead.”

Aramis froze.

He'd know that voice anywhere.

It was the voice he desperately wanted to hear, even if right now it sounded harsh and gravelly.

“Porthos? My God, I've been looking for you...” He moved further in, out of the sunlight.

“Don't know how you know who I am. Don't matter. You won't take me.” The hope that had sprung up in Aramis' chest turned to ice. Porthos didn't recognize him.

“I'm your friend. I'm not going to hurt you.”

His answer was the sound of a pistol being cocked. Aramis cautiously took off his hat and angled himself so that he wasn't back lit. So Porthos could see him.

“Porthos, it's me.”

The big man was sitting on the ground, leaning against the back wall, about ten feet away. His sword was at his side and the pistol Aramis had heard was pointed his direction.

“Aramis?” Porthos' voice was small and uncertain, but before Aramis could say anything, Porthos shook his head quickly. “No. No, you're not. He can't be here.”

“I am, I'm right-”

“Don't!” roared Porthos, his hoarse voice booming through the small space. “You're not him! Don't look at me like that, like he would.” His voiced dropped to a rumble. “You're not him. He's safe. Far from here.”

Aramis held out his empty hands, but Porthos kept muttering.

“No, there's no way. Aramis ain't here. You're not real. He left and he's safe and he's not here.”

As his eyes adjusted to the dark, Aramis could better see Porthos' condition.

The fabric tied around his thigh looked like it might have been blue, but now it was black with blood. Aramis ached to go his friend, but Porthos' aim wasn't wavering, even if the rest of him looked utterly done in. His eyes were wild in the meager light.

Aramis kept his hands easy but settled into a crouch so that he could move if he needed to and tried to figure out what to do.

Porthos clearly was not in his right mind, exhausted and hurt. How long since he'd slept? Or eaten?

Aramis wasn't sure how to get through to him without causing Porthos more harm or getting himself shot.

“So I'm not real.” Porthos shook his head weakly. “What would I do? If I were here?”

“I'm not talkin' to a figment.”

“If I'm in your head, what is the harm?”

Porthos let the pistol rest on his leg, but he didn't drop the aim.

“Would I ride to the rescue, all heroic and dashing? Sounds like something I'd do,” said Aramis lightly as he carefully knelt down on the rocky earth.

“Didn't realize...I was this far gone,” Porthos said softly, almost to himself.

“Gone?” repeated Aramis, slowly moving closer, foot by foot. “Why are you seeing me? If I'm not really here?”

“'Cause I'm dreamin'. Probably dyin'.” Porthos closed his eyes. “And I miss him.”

Aramis' throat closed and he couldn't breathe.

He shuffled through the dirt and was nearly at Porthos' side when the big man's eyes shot open again, rolling and struggling to focus.

Aramis stopped and caught the gun before Porthos could swing it around. He squeezed Porthos' hand tight.

“Porthos! It's me! I swear to you, I swear it, I'm here. I'm real.”

Porthos stared at him with wild, dark eyes.

His hand trembled in Aramis' and the pistol slipped from his fingers.

“Aramis?” he whispered.

“Yes, yes, my friend, I'm here.” Porthos fumbled for a grip and tried to pull Aramis closer. Aramis went willingly, wrapping his arms around Porthos' shoulders. “I'm here,” Aramis repeated, rocking slightly. “I'm here with you.”

Porthos sagged against him, shaking and gasping for air.

Aramis rested his cheek against black curls and started at the heat he felt. He pulled off his gloves and palmed Porthos' face. It burned like fire in the cool air of the little cave.

Aramis' mind began to race. Porthos had been out here for days, with a wound that was probably badly infected. His horse had turned up at the encampment two days ago, he'd been without supplies at least that long.

Aramis needed to get him back to camp, to a doctor, to water and food, and their friends.

But for all of that, he couldn't make himself move.

Couldn't make himself let go.

Aramis hugged Porthos more firmly to his chest.

“What are you doing here?” panted Porthos.

“Looking for you, obviously.” Porthos shook his head.

“You left. You left us. It's what you wanted.”

“No,” interrupted Aramis quickly. “I needed to leave the death and the choices and the plotting. It was never the Musketeers I wanted to leave. Never you.”

Porthos let out a long breath.

“Glad I got to see you again.” Aramis tensed and pulled back so he could look down at Porthos.

“You will not be rid of me, yet. We need to get you back to camp. Do you think you can ride?” Porthos frowned and considered.

“One way to find out.”

By the time Aramis dragged out of him the hollow, Porthos was shaking again. The energy that perceived danger had stirred in him was gone and now he was a heavy weight in Aramis' arms.

Aramis leaned Porthos against the rocks and ran to his saddlebag to pull out a water skin.

“No wine, I'm afraid,” he apologized as he pressed it into Porthos' unsteady hands.

Aramis reached for the cloth tied around Porthos' leg.

“No,” barked Porthos, his fingers wrapping around Aramis' wrist weakly. “It's bad. Not here.”

Aramis studied Porthos. In the evening sunlight, he looked even worse. His skin was grey and his eyes hollowed. But he seemed more aware. Porthos was no stranger to pain. That wasn't why he'd stopped him.

_Didn't realize I was this far gone._

Porthos was worried.

It must be really bad.

Aramis forced a smile.

“Very well, but no delaying when we get back to camp. Athos will have my head.” Porthos relaxed and tried to grin.

“Wouldn't want that.”

Aramis led his horse to a stand of rocks to make it easier for Porthos to mount.

It took time and no small effort. And the scream that Porthos tried to choke back as he swung his leg over the horse would haunt Aramis. But he was on the horse, gripping the pommel, knuckles pale.

Aramis settled behind him and got them moving, trusting the horse to find the path. Aramis couldn't see much past Porthos' broad shoulders, but it seemed the safest way to ride.

If Porthos started to fall, Aramis doubted he could stop it. He nudged Porthos.

“Tell me what happened.”

“Hmm?” The curly head that had begun to droop came up.

“The scouting party. Tell me everything.”

“Ambushed. The others were dead 'fore I knew what was happenin'. Whoever was aimin' for me missed their kill shot.” His hand moved to the stained bandage at this thigh. “I rode out of there as fast as I could.”

“They pursued you?”

“Eventually, but I had a good lead. Don't think they were expecting to have to chase anyone.” Porthos coughed drily and Aramis passed him the water skin. “I was bleedin' pretty bad. I stopped and got the ball out.”

“I found it,” said Aramis before he could stop himself. “How deep was it?” Porthos shrugged.

“Deep enough.”

“Meaning you made a mess of it.” Porthos snorted and glanced at Aramis over his shoulder.

“Maybe. Don't wanna ruin the surprise.” A rush of persevering fondness washed over Aramis. How he had missed this bloody stubborn man.

“How'd you come to the cave?”

“Musta passed out. Woke up on the ground. Horse was gone. I tried walkin', but it wasn't goin' well.” Aramis squeezed his eyes shut against the pain of the images. “I leaned against the rocks and there it was. Ripped up a bush, covered my tracks best I could. Camouflaged the opening.”

“That's why I lost the trail,” mused Aramis.

“Wasn't exactly expectin' you,” rumbled Porthos, but Aramis could hear the smile.

“I know.”

As they rode on, Aramis realized Porthos was leaning against him more and more, unbearably hot.

“Porthos.” He jostled the big man. “Porthos.”

“What?” The growl was weak.

“What else have I missed?”

“Missed?”

“While I was gone. Surely I've missed out on some great adventure?”

“Nah,” mumbled Porthos. “Wait. D'Artagnan. Got married.”

“Married?” mused Aramis. “You'd think he would have said something.”

“You were gone.”

“Yes, well, I'm back now.”

“Back?” Aramis almost didn't hear the question.

“Yes.”

“Stay?”

“As long as you'll have me,” he murmured. Porthos sighed something Aramis did not catch and began to list dangerously. “Stay awake. Porthos, I need you to stay awake.”

“'m tired.”

“I know, I know you are, but we are nearly there.”

“...good...to see you.”

“Don't,” snarled Aramis, tightening his grip on Porthos. “Don't you dare.” Porthos slumped back, boneless. “Porthos!”

When Aramis had seen the blood, when Porthos hadn't recognized him, when he'd felt the heat of fever radiating off his battered body, Aramis forced the panic down.

It tried to overwhelm him now.

He could see the camp in the distance. They were so close.

Aramis braced Porthos with one hand flat to his chest.

A chest that still rose and fell.

Aramis heeled the horse faster and held on.

 

oooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo

 

“Athos!” Athos looked up from his papers as d'Artagnan raced into the tent. “They're back. Aramis found him!” Athos ran out into the twilight to see Aramis easing Porthos' limp form into a dozen waiting hands.

“Get him to the surgeons!” ordered Athos as Aramis slid from the back of his horse. D'Artagnan led the way as the Musketeers bore Porthos to the medical tent.

Aramis pressed a hand to his mouth and watched them go. Athos waited for him to follow, to take over, to take care of Porthos.

Instead, he stood motionless with a look of horror on his face.

Athos approached slowly.

“What happened?” Aramis whipped toward him, startled, but didn't say anything. “Tell me what happened,” Athos tried again, commanding.

“They were ambushed, you were right,” said Aramis, flatly. Reporting as ordered. “He escaped, but he was shot. He evaded for a while, but he passed out, lost his horse. I found a trail, followed it. I lost the tracks somewhere. Turns out he'd covered them before he hid. I shouldn't have found him. I discovered him in a cave.”

Porthos had been hurt out there for days. Hiding. Waiting.

Athos stamped down his own guilt and focused on Aramis and how the man didn't seem to be breathing right.

“Aramis, you found him.”

“I didn't,” blurted Aramis. “I shouldn't have. I gave up. I almost rode past him. My horse spooked or I wouldn't have stopped. I don't even know...” Aramis' eyes were wide, hands frantic through his hair. “He would have died. Alone, in a dark hole, thinking I never wanted to see him again-”

“Stop,” commanded Athos. He wrapped a hand around Aramis' doublet and hauled him close. “You think you left to protect us. And I know you're looking for a sign, some proof you did the right thing by coming back. You rode three hundred leagues, of your own volition. You arrived when we, when _I_ needed you. You trailed Porthos across hard terrain from days old tracks. Your horse stops just outside the place he is hidden.” Aramis looked down, but Athos shook him until he met his gaze. “You used to see the hand of God in everything. Brother, what more do you need?”

Aramis stared at him, shocked. It was only for a moment and then he took a deep breath and straightened his shoulders.

The anguish was gone. Aramis looked...determined. In a way he hadn't for a long time.

“I need him to live.” Athos nodded and let go.

“Then go do something about it.”

 


	5. Chapter 5

D'Artagnan crossed and uncrossed his arms, watching as surgeons' assistants cleared a table and lit lamps. Porthos was quickly laid down and the Musketeers were hurried away. He scowled at the first assistant that approached him with what looked like an intent to do the same.

“I need water, boiling and cool,” stated Aramis as he strode in, already unfastening his doublet. “Bandages, clean cloth, and a sharp knife.”

“And who are you?” D'Artagnan looked up to see Delon, the head surgeon, crossing the large tent.

“He's here to help,” answered Athos smoothly, only a few steps behind Aramis.

“Very well,” acknowledged Delon, nodding at the assistants who scattered to retrieve the requested items. “What can you tell me?”

“He's been shot, but he removed the ball himself. I suspect the wound is infected, he's fevered, but I haven't actually seen it for myself.”

“Let's have a look, then.”

D'Artagnan moved in to help undress Porthos. He removed the boots and socks as Delon and Aramis wrestled Porthos out of his doublet and shirt.

They all paused then and regarded the dark bandage high around Porthos' thigh.

Aramis pushed up his sleeves, pulled out his main gauche, and carefully cut away the stiff fabric. He threw it to the ground with disgust that d'Artagnan didn't understand.

“Let's cut away the pants as well,” choked Aramis. “I think they're a lost cause.” D'Artagnan drew his main gauche and helped cut open the leather until they could easily slide it from Porthos' legs.

D'Artagnan got his first good look at the wound.

It was a jagged hole the length of d'Artagnan's thumb, high on Porthos' thigh. The whole area was red and swollen, weeping blood and pus. And the smell was stomach-turning.

He swallowed hard and looked away.

“We need to clean this out,” muttered Delon. He took an offered pitcher of steaming water and glanced at Aramis, who nodded.

“D'Artagnan, Athos, we need to hold him down. Just in case he wakes up.” D'Artagnan wrapped his hands around Porthos' calf, only to jerk away from the heat.

Athos stepped out of the shadows and rested a hand on d'Artagnan's shoulder before moving to the other side of the table and leaned his weight against Porthos' shoulders.

D'Artagnan gritted his teeth and leaned across Porthos' lower legs.

Aramis braced the wounded thigh and gave Delon a look.

It was all rather anti-climactic when Porthos did not even flinch as the hot water was poured over the gash.

“I think he's good and out, gentlemen, if you would please take your leave,” said Delon, wiping his hands on his apron. “Captain, I'll give you my report later.”

“I'm staying,” declared Aramis.

“Monsieur, I assure you, I have quite enough help here-”.

“I'm not. Leaving.”

“Delon, allow him to stay and assist. It will better for us all,” said Athos simply. “I'll await your report.” He left and d'Artagnan followed after, uncertain what else to.

oooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo

 

True to his word, Delon had stopped by Athos' tent to give his daily report and update him on Porthos. The wound was poulticed, but he didn't want to stitch it yet. Porthos hadn't woken. His fever was climbing.

It was near midnight when Athos ducked into the medical tent in time to hear Aramis' voice, dangerous and low.

“Touch him and I'll kill you.” Aramis stood guard in front of Porthos, bodily blocking the head surgeon from reaching him.

“What is going on?” asked Athos softly. Carefully.

Aramis didn't make idle threats.

“He,” snapped Aramis, pointing, “wants to bleed Porthos.”

“His fever is too high,” retorted Delon. “It must be brought down.”

“A fever will not matter if you bleed him dry. He has already lost so much blood.”

“Aramis, you aren't a surgeon,” said Athos quietly.

“You're right. But I'm not wrong about this.”

“I have tolerated your help, monsieur, but I will not tolerate your meddling,” objected Delon.

“There is very little in this life more important to me than him,” warned Aramis. “I won't let you do this.” He looked at Athos, imploring. “Athos, trust me.”

Athos studied Porthos.

He was still and silent on the cot.

And he was unsettlingly pale.

“We'll wait,” announced Athos finally.

“Captain,” chided Delon, “you command this regiment, but within this tent-”

“I will take responsibility for whatever happens.” Athos thought he kept his tone level but the way that Delon's expression softened suggested otherwise.

“I know you will, Captain, that is not what I fear.”

“Aramis is not without experience,” reassured Athos. “I trust his judgment in this. Porthos' well-being will be his utmost concern.”

The surgeon frowned at him, but held his tongue and walked away.

 

Oooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo

 

How many hours had it been? The camp was still night quiet, but surely it had been hours.

Aramis' arms felt like lead, but he couldn't stop.

If the fever didn't come down, Porthos would die.

Aramis dipped the cloth in fresh water and squeezed out the excess. He ran the rag over over Porthos' burning face and pushed back the damp curls. He pulled away the light sheet, careful not to displace the poultice Delon had given him to draw the infection out of Porthos' wound.

The gash was still too foul to stitch. Porthos _had_ made a mess of it, the edges ragged and torn.

Aramis stroked the cloth over the injured man's chest, arms, and legs.

The moisture was gone quickly, dried by the fire raging under Porthos' skin.

Aramis re-wet the cloth and began again.

Across the mark that cut through his eyebrow.

Over parched, cracked lips.

Down firm muscle and puckered scars.

Smoothing over skin that was still not the rich brown it should be.

Wet the cloth.

Cheeks.

Neck.

Hands.

Thighs.

Porthos never moved.

Wet the cloth.

Forehead.

Chest.

Stomach.

Shins.

Porthos didn't flinch.

Wet the cloth.

Eyelids.

Arms.

Hips.

Calves.

Porthos was as still as death.

Wet the cloth.

Aramis began to pray.

Softly.

In time with the strokes of cool cloth against burning skin.

Forehead.

_Oh glorious apostle St. Jude,_

Cheeks.

_faithful servant and friend of Jesus,_

Neck.

_patron of hopeless cases--of things despaired of._

Shoulders.

Wet the cloth.

_Pray for me who am so miserable._

Arms.

_I implore thee,_

Hands.

_help where help is almost despaired of._

Chest.

_Come to my assistance in this great need_

Stomach.

Wet the cloth.

_that I may receive the help of heaven in all my necessities,_

Hips.

_particularly the well-being of Porthos,_

Thighs.

_that I may bless God with thee_

Calves.

_and all the elect throughout eternity._

Ankles.

Wet the cloth.

_I promise thee, O blessed St. Jude,_

Closed, hollow eyes.

_to be ever mindful of this great favor,_

Beloved, still face.

_and I will never cease to honor thee._

Silent, dry lips.

_Amen._

 

 

“St. Jude?”

Aramis jumped.

He'd been so lost in the motions and the words that he hadn't heard Athos enter the tent. Athos studied him in that way that suggested he knew everything you weren't saying and possibly more. His eyes flicked down to the medal hanging against Aramis' chest and back up.

“I wondered where his necklace had gone to.”

“When he came to Douai,” supplied Aramis. “He said I wasn't hopeless.”

Athos took a stool and sat down next to Aramis.

“I suspect he knows far more about hopeless situations than you or I,” sighed Athos.

“I imagine you are correct.” They sat there, side by side, and watched Porthos breathe.

Nothing else mattered.

This was all Aramis still had.

As long as Porthos breathed.

As long as Athos was a steady warmth at his shoulder.

The world narrowed to this tent and this cot and this family.

So narrow, that Aramis nearly jumped again when Athos spoke.

“Go to my tent and rest.”

“I can't-”

“You can. You are exhausted. And you are not the only one who wants to be with him.” Athos' voice was soft, but steel. “Go. If you're back in less than three hours, I will have you removed.”

Aramis thought about resisting. But he was so very tired. And Athos would take care of Porthos as fiercely as he would.

“Alright,” he conceded. He dropped the cloth into the bowl and stood up, knees and back protesting the movement. He bent and brushed at Porthos' hair as he whispered, “I'll be back, Porthos. You had better be here.”

 

ooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I never mean these things to get so long...


	6. Chapter 6

It was mid-afternoon when d'Artagnan found time to duck into Athos' tent.

The older man was sitting at a table, reading reports.

“Have you seen Porthos? How is he?”

“I sat with him this morning. No change.” D'Artagnan sighed and sat down on the other side of the table.

“And Aramis?” Athos frowned thoughtfully.

“He _is_ changed.”

“For good or bad?”

“That remains to be seen.”

“If Porthos dies,” asked d'Artagnan tentatively, “do you really think Aramis will stay?”

“Yes.” Athos sat down the papers and regarded a bottle of wine to his left before he raised his eyes to d'Artagnan. “And he'll be dead in less than a week.” D'Artagnan blinked at him.

“He wouldn't.”

“Consciously? No. But the front line of a war is an easy place to get yourself killed,” said Athos calmly. “The way they are...” He paused. “I accepted long ago that to lose one of them, I would lose them both.”

“You just...accepted that?” asked d'Artagnan. Athos merely tilted his head in something like a shrug. “When Aramis was gone-”

“He was safe with old men and books in a monastery,” interrupted Athos. “Porthos could live with that.”

D'Artagnan shook his head, irritated.

“I don't believe that either one of them would give up.”

“Imagine the person who gives you the feeling of family: the knowledge that you are not alone, your joy. Now see them dead.” Athos' gaze went distant. “You will do things you never thought you would. Reckless, dangerous things. Not in the name of suicide, you've too much honor for that. But it doesn't mean you are any less heartsick, any less weary. And at some point, by design or by chance, you are too slow, too sloppy and the end will be the same.”

“You sound like you know,” murmured d'Artagnan softly.

“I walked away from generations of responsibility and privilege in an attempt to die quickly and well,” said Athos frankly. D'Artagnan couldn't help but grin.

“Porthos and Aramis messed up your plan. Didn't they?”

“Just as easily as they disrupted yours.”

“I didn't...they...”.

Athos' smile was gentle and knowing.

D'Artagnan shut his mouth.

“They are two of the most stubborn men I have ever known. Porthos won't die easily. And Aramis won't let him go without a fight.” Athos opened the bottle and poured a glass. “Speaking of fighting, go force Aramis to take a break. Even if he doesn't appreciate it, Delon will.”

 

ooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo

 

Aramis was sitting beside Porthos' cot, hands limp in his lap, staring at nothing.

D'Artagnan placed a hand on his shoulder and squeezed. Aramis looked up at him, too sluggish to be surprised.

“Any change?” Aramis rubbed at his face.

“The wound looked better, I stitched it. The fever might be abating some.”

“Get something to eat. I'll sit with him.” Aramis nodded slowly. D'Artagnan wasn't sure if he should be worried about how easily Aramis agreed.

“He's been restless,” said Aramis. “He might wake up soon. Get him to drink something.”

“Yes, Mother,” teased d'Artagnan lightly. Aramis' lips twitched, but he didn't smile and d'Artagnan's inclination fell to worry. “Go on, I'll be here. We'll be fine.” Aramis bent and whispered something to Porthos that d'Artagnan could not hear and he left the tent.

It hadn't been an hour when Delon walked over to the cot as he made his rounds.

“You realize I am perfectly capable,” he said drily. “You, Aramis, the Captain. You don't need to be here.”

“Apologies, monsieur. But it is not about you or your skills. We just...take care of each other.”

“I've noticed. I'm shooing Musketeers out of here night and day. A whole regiment of worrisome nursemaids,” muttered Delon, but he moved on.

D'Artagnan took the rag from the bowl of water and looked up to see fever-bright eyes fixed on him.

“Porthos! How do you feel?” Porthos squinted, studying.

“Charon?” D'Artagnan's heart sank.

“No, it's me, d'Artagnan. You've been...sick.”

“Sick?”

“Yeah, just a little fever. But you'll be better soon.”

“Fever...”

“Yes,” confirmed d'Artagnan as he reached for a cup filled with water and helped Porthos' sip it. When he lay back, he was still looking at d'Artagnan with an intensity that was unsettling.

“Promise me you'll bury me near my mother.” D'Artagnan frowned.

“Porthos-”

“I showed you where, 'member? Charon, promise.”

“You aren't going to die.”

“Fever killed her. Couldn't do nothin'.” D'Artagnan took the damp cloth and wiped away the tears that escaped Porthos' eyes. “Don't want her to be alone anymore.”

“You were a child, Porthos. It wasn't your fault.”

“You owe me,” whispered Porthos. “At least promise me this, Charon.”

“You are going to be fine,” insisted d'Artagnan, emotion causing his voice to tremble.

“Please.” D'Artagnan had never heard Porthos beg. Not for anything. “Please, Charon.” It twisted up something in his gut and it hurt so sharply he blinked back his own tears.

“Alright. Alright, Porthos, I promise. Next to your mother, I promise.” He would have promised Porthos anything, if only to end this heart-broken pleading. “I'll take care of everything.” He smoothed the cloth over Porthos' face again, running his thumbs over damp cheekbones. “Rest now. Just sleep.”

The big man blinked at him slower and slower until his eyes fell shut and stayed that way.

D'Artagnan took a ragged breath. And another.

Why was it so hard to breathe?

When Aramis returned a few minutes later, he roughly rubbed at his face and cleared his aching throat, but it didn't matter.

Aramis' dark eyes were concerned and locked on him, far more focused than when he had left.

“What happened?”

“Nothing,” answered d'Artagnan, handing the damp cloth to Aramis.

“D'Artagnan-”.

“He didn't know me,” blurted d'Artagnan. “He woke up, called me Charon, and asked me...” D'Artagnan shoved his hair back. “He asked me to bury him next to his mother.”

Aramis looked down at the rag in his hand.

“Fevers are always hard on Porthos,” he admitted finally. “Incessant dreams and nightmares and very often about his mother.” Aramis winced and looked at d'Artagnan. “I'm sorry, I should have warned you.”

“I told him I would,” cried d'Artagnan. “I _promised_ him. I don't know where she's buried, how do I keep that promise, Aramis?”

“You won't have to,” soothed Aramis. “He woke up. The fact that he's dreaming and talking is good. Before he was too weak.” Aramis ducked his head, searching for d'Artagnan's eyes. “He's getting better.”

D'Artagnan took another breath.

It came easier than before.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wasn't going to post so soon. Or until the story was finished.
> 
> But it's my birthday.
> 
> I'll do as I like.


	7. Chapter 7

 

Cold.

It was the first thing he felt.

An all-encompassing chill that rolled through him with a shudder.

He was sore.

He hurt.

Every muscle, every bit of flesh.

He shifted against the ache and it was all eclipsed by a sharp, bright star of pain in his leg.

Porthos forced his eyes open.

A mess of dark, wavy hair bent over his leg. Careful fingers were wrapping a bandage.

It looked like Aramis.

It _felt_ like Aramis.

But Aramis shouldn't be...

Porthos frowned.

Aramis wasn't here, but he couldn't remember why.

He was so muddled.

Porthos groaned and arched away as the bandage tightening.

Aramis glanced up at Porthos and then again, clearly surprised to see him awake.

“Porthos?” he asked softly. “You with me?” Porthos only managed a raspy grunt.

Cool hands lifted him up and a cup of liquid was held to his lips. Porthos recognized the musty scent of valeria tea. He slowly drained the cup.

“How do you feel?”

“'S cold.”

“No, it isn't, you're just very warm,” said Aramis with a frown.

The pulsing pain in his leg and the way every single bit of him felt raw.

“Fever.” Aramis nodded. Porthos looked at him hard. “You real?”

Aramis' face crumpled, but it smoothed into a smile.

“I am.” He pulled a thin blanket up to Porthos' chest and rested a hand there, a light pressure. “I'm real. I'm here.”

“Thought maybe I dreamt you,” admitted Porthos.

“I am rather dreamy.”

Porthos breathed out a laugh that hitched. Stupid fever, made him a sentimental sop. He squeezed his tearing eyes shut and turned his face away.

Gentle fingers framed his jaw and urged him back toward Aramis, who was kneeling so close and looking at him earnestly.

“I'm sorry, Porthos. For everything I did and everything I should have. I'm sorry I wasn't here.” He wiped away the tears at Porthos' temples. “But I'm here now. I am here with you.”

Porthos nodded once and relaxed into Aramis' touch. Knowing fingers traced his face and ran through his hair.

The throb of pain faded.

His eyes kept closing, but Porthos' fought to stay awake.

“Stop that,” whispered Aramis. “I'm not going anywhere. I will be here when you wake up.” Feather-light touches over his eyelids. “Sleep. Everything is alright.”

 

ooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo

 

When Porthos awoke next, the tent was bright with sunlight.

His leg hurt, but it wasn't the agony he remember from...

Aramis.

Porthos struggled to sit up, to look around, to know it hadn't all been in his head.

“Easy, Porthos.” A firm hand gripped his shoulder and pushed him back down. Aramis leaned over, studying him. “Easy.” Porthos fell back, relief making his weak muscles nearly useless.

“'M alright,” he murmured, trying to dispel the concern on Aramis' face. “Just...checkin'.” Aramis made a sound of understanding and pressed a hand to Porthos' face.

“Fever seems to have gone down. How do you feel?”

“Better.” Aramis sighed and sat down.

“Good. Are you hungry at all? You haven't eaten in days.”

“Maybe later.” Porthos let his eyes roam over his friend. He looked tired and his beard was a little sparse, but he looked like himself. Like Aramis. “When's the last time you ate?”

“I'll have you know that Athos and d'Artagnan bullied me into a meal quite recently.”

“They okay?”

“They're fine.” Porthos narrowed his eyes. “They are,” insisted Aramis. “Just worried about you.”

Porthos felt like he knew more than he could remember, but Aramis being next to him was puzzling.

“What brought you back?” Aramis leaned back on the stool and studied the ceiling of the tent.

“I want to say,” he began, “that it was because I finally knew my heart. Finally understood that what I needed was to be a Musketeer. But all I truly understood was that I needed to leave. I needed to be here in a way I could not, cannot, explain. It was like I was compelled.” He looked down at his folded hands. “When I arrived, you'd been missing for three days. Athos let me search for you.”

“Tracking ain't your strong suite,” mused Porthos.

“Thank you for that vote of confidence, but you're right, it isn't.” Aramis picked at the blanket and was silent for a long moment. “But you don't need to be good when you are led by God.”

Porthos absorbed that and kept the doubt out of his voice.

“You think God led you to me?”

“Looking back on it, I shouldn't have found you. The tracks were old, the terrain rough, you were so well hidden...I'd lost hope. I convinced myself all I was going to find was blood and dust.” Aramis looked at him tentatively. “I was coming back to camp, trying to figure out how I was going to tell Athos I had failed, when my horse spooked. And then I saw the little cave, masked by bushes. And I discovered you, wounded and burning up with fever.”

“I remember the cave,” Porthos frowned and tried to recall. “I think I remember you being there...sharin' a horse?” He let out a frustrated breath. “It's all mush.” Porthos looked at Aramis. “So, other than divine intervention, which I am not dismissin', you don't know why you came back?”

“The provincial at the abbey said something to me. He said that 'the glory of God is man fully alive'. I'm a soldier and I don't know how to be anything else. I love the fight. The danger.” Porthos smiled and to his delight Aramis returned it. “My life is here. I just have to be better at it. My duty lies with France. The King and his Musketeers.”

“What about the Queen? The dauphin?” asked Porthos hesitantly.

“I will protect them. But as a Musketeer, not as a lover and a father. I can't be family to them.”

“I'm sorry you can't have that.”

“I have a family,” declared Aramis. He reached up and took off the necklace around his neck. He slipped it over Porthos' head and laid the charms against his chest. “I may have forgotten, but I remember now.” He looked at Porthos and smiled again. “I remember now.”

 

oooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo

 

Athos looked up from his papers as Aramis walked into his tent. He knew from the way Aramis carried himself what the news was before he even spoke.

“How is he?”

“Awake and coherent. Out of danger, I believe.” Athos let his head fall forward for a moment.

“I'm glad to hear it. His leg?”

“A long way from fit, but there is no more sign of infection and it's knitting.”

“Good. Get a meal and then we'll get you quartered.”

“Athos-”

“You cannot live in the infirmary, Aramis. Delon has put up with you quite long enough.”

“That man does not understand us,” objected Aramis. “How many wounded men would benefit from a friendly face or hand only to be sequestered by that, that...tyrant?” Athos sighed.

“That does not change the fact we need to get you properly settled. Porthos will be fine. You said so yourself. But,” continued Athos, overriding whatever Aramis tried to say, “I will have a word with Delon.” He frowned at Aramis. “I thought you were going to be a model soldier?” Aramis stopped, confused until he remembered the promise.

“That was only if I didn't find Porthos,” replied Aramis with a charming grin. “So sorry, Captain.”

_There you are._

The cocksure rogue that Athos feared had been beaten out of Aramis by the loss of things he'd never truly had. He allowed himself the smallest smile.

“I'm glad your back.”

“Me too,” said Aramis and Athos knew he meant it. “Me too.”

oooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo

 

 _You will hear of wars and rumors of wars; see that you are not alarmed, for this is something that must happen, but the end will not be yet._ -Matthew 24.6

 

ooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for all the birthday wishes!   
> And thanks to everyone who stuck with what I thought would be a three chapter fic at most...

**Author's Note:**

> I still have a lot of feelings about Season 2.  
> If you would like to discuss feelings or anything else, I'm on tumblr.
> 
> http://jevvica.tumblr.com/


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